Brigitte Rousselot
by Bouquet
Summary: Je t'aime. C'est tout.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Tudors.

Je t'aime

When she was a little girl, Brigitte believed that her father was the most important man of France, if not the whole world.

He was always kind to her, always gave her some part of his meat at supper time although they almost never had enough money to buy it and he could swing her around and around with his strong arms.

Brigitte was _certain_ that no man could measure up to her father and promptly decided that she would marry him.

In her childish naivety, she had asked him one evening if she could marry him and was answered with loud, echoing laughter that reverberated through his torso.

After he stopped, he pulled her on his lap and told her in a most serious voice:

" _Je suis desolé, chère_, but I am already married to _maman_ and she would be very sad if I left her for you. I hope you understand?"

"But, _papan,_ does this mean I will never marry?", little Brigitte asked him in a shocked manner. If she couldn't marry who would she marry?

Her father laughed again, but quieter than before: "_Non,non, chère,_ you will marry and I promise you that I will personally make sure that the man is worthy of my little _ange."_

Satisfied that she would marry-because _papan_ had promised!-Brigitte went to sleep with a smile on her lips.

She had no idea what would happen in her future, had no idea that a man with a devastating kindness would lead her on a path full of obstacles and shame.

* * *

><p>War is horrible.<p>

It is the worst, most vile thing on earth; a punishment of God for humankind's countless sins.

People hunger, people thirst and people _die._

Brigitte is a young, beautiful woman.

Pleasantly formed, kind, charming and chaste.

But a woman cannot fight in a war, cannot save her hometown and she cannot protect her father who turned weak and old thanks to the many years of manual labour that barely fed his family.

Brigitte watches the hollow eyes of the men who endure the horrors of the battlefield and the quiet hopelessness and desperation reflected in the eyes of the women.

She watches her father and decides.

The next day, she dons the man's armor and joins the war.

* * *

><p>She doesn't know what will happen to her.<p>

Captured and held in a tent with a man who cares for her like a loving friend, who makes sure that nobody touches her and nobody disrespects her.

She wonders what this man, Charles Brandon , plans to do with her.

His people invaded her country and he acts like she is just a lady whose company he enjoys-_she has seen his looks._

She doesn't trust him; he almost killed her father and he keeps her imprisoned against her will and he has to have an additional plan with her.

And then, he tells her that she is free.

* * *

><p>She will kill him.<p>

She has to kill him.

He might have been kind to her but that didn't excuse him for all the crimes he committed against her country.

She presses the blade of the dagger he gave her to protect herself lightly against the pale flesh of his throat but no matter how light her touch the man woke up quickly and stared her with intense eyes.

They stare at each other, neither giving each other an inch.

He waits for her to make a decision: Slit his throat or spread her legs?

Brigitte had always been perceptive and she knows that she has to make a decision-fast.

Charles takes the choice away from her; grabbing her arms, he pulled her towards him, using the momentum to change their positions in order to press against her from above.

It is nothing like she had expected lying with a man would be.

He is rough and eager, pulling her shift down to free her breasts, kissing her as if he would die without her touch.

Ripping her gown apart and freeing his large, frightening member, he penetrated her with a quick thrust of his hips.

She didn't have any time to ponder about the pains many women complained about because he was thrusting and thrusting and thrusting until he _arrived_ inside her.

In a matter of moments, she had lost her chastity, her maidenhead for a man who was groaning above her in utter bliss while her skin was prickling from the sensation.

* * *

><p>On the ship heading to England, Brigitte sat on the bed in the cabinet she and Charles shared with each other.<p>

She doesn't know what she is doing anymore.

Is she really headed to England to stay in her former captor's manor?

Did she really leave her father behind in order to become Charles's mistress?

The door opens before she can continue doubting herself. It is Charles who enters, takes her into his arms and processes to ravish her thoroughly till she is too tired to think anymore.

* * *

><p>She cannot pin point the time it starts to get too much.<p>

If she should guess it would be the time her lover told he that she can wear his wife's dresses and night-shifts.

Her name is Catherine and Charles loves her.

He tries to deny it, tries to hide it, tries to force it out of him with her help but Brigitte _knows._

Charles loves his wife although she doesn't want to spent any time with him anymore and _she_ is simply the French Whore the Duke of Suffolk keeps at his side to spite her.

Brigitte is a whore, nothing more and nothing less.

* * *

><p>Every night, she awakes to his thrashings, his groans of pain and the smell of his cold sweat.<p>

She wonders if Catherine dealt with his nightmares in the same manner Brigitte did, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead and whispering reassurances.

It starts to make her sick; the way she compares all her actions to those of a female stranger who she was unknowingly competing with.

* * *

><p>Charles' son is named Henry, after the King of England. He is young, a few years younger than her, but handsome and she presumes athletic.<p>

He is polite, not cursing her for hurting his mother and seducing his father from his holy vows.

In Addition, he assures her that he is pleased that she is making his beloved father happy.

Charles is grateful but mostly serendipitous but Brigitte feels Henry's gaze that is drifting covertly over her body, drinking in her curves.

She doesn't know how to act so she keeps her observations to herself.

* * *

><p>There are many things that she doesn't understand about England.<p>

They have a madman as a King who went through four wives already-two dead and two divorced- and yet he is still beloved.

Moreover, while everyone in court was acting like it was a brothel behind closed doors, they expected the outward court life to be regulated in the strictest manner.

She doesn't understand how Charles can still love the King and call him friend although the man had banished him, indirectly ruining his marriage and sending him to a war.

But then again, she also doesn't understand why he still loves his wife when he has her.

* * *

><p>The days turn into a seamless episode of inanity, lust and misery.<p>

She is doing nothing protective, just trying to keep Charles company and be as pleasant as possible, lie with him as many times as h wishes and doubting her place in his country, his life and his heart.

Brigitte wishes simplicity back.

* * *

><p>One morning she awakes to Charles coughing and shaking uncontrollably. Panicked she ordered the servants to call a healer who would find out what ailed him.<p>

He is dying.

He is old and ill so death is approaching quickly which doesn't prevent the King from ordering him to court.

Brigitte is infuriated that he is actually going, cursing him in her mind for his stupid behavior but knows that she cannot keep him next to her.

Contrary to Catherine she had realized early that Charles would always choose the King first and the rest of the world later.

She is taking care of him after her returns just to be the first who sees him die, who sees his chest stop moving and his body still.

It happens when the moon peeks out behind the dark clouds, on the first month of the year 1547.

* * *

><p>The first time Brigitte meets Catherine is on Charles' funeral.<p>

She is crying because she loved this man who never loved her, who whisked her away to his own kingdom, who she was miserable with.

She sees Catherine, dressed in black and a dark shawl covering her face. She looks imposing and dangerous whereas without the shawl she is just a woman, old and brittle from the hardships she endured in life.

She starts crying harder for never had she been more ashamed of herself when she saw the burning love in Catherine Brandon's eyes directed on the corpse of Brigitte's lover.

* * *

><p>It is Henry who comes to her side, hugs her and starts to stroke her back and shoulders.<p>

He should be comforting his mother, he should be mourning his father but Brigitte is selfish and just grabs him tighter.

She cries for the love that was, that could have been and the one that would be if she let herself fall.

She loved Charles but it wasn't the kind of love that could satisfy her forever, the kind of love that was fickle and would burn out like a candle blown out by a weak wind.

Maybe if he had loved her more strongly she could have loved him just like she wished she had.

Yet, he was dead and Henry, his _son_, was holding her as if the world would end without her touch.

Strong, slightly calloused hands that seem so familiar take her head in their palms to lift her slightly for him to capture her lips in a searing kiss that left her more breathless than any activities she and Charles got up to.

She enjoys the moment until her mind catches up to her actions, which turns her cold inside.

She pushes him away from her and runs, runs, runs until she is able to breath again.

* * *

><p>She is packing her belongings which isn't much because she cannot stay any longer in this place where she lost herself.<p>

She will go back to France and pray with all her being that her life will turn back to normal again, before Henry and Charles and war happened.

She will leave behind the French Whore of Suffolk behind and become Brigitte Rousselot again, the beautiful, courageous woman who risked her life for her country and family.

She will leave behind England.

* * *

><p>The End.<p>

* * *

><p>The promised fanfic about Brigitte x Charles though it turned into a Brigitte x Charles x Henry which I didn't intend but seemed reasonable somehow.<p>

Before anyone criticizes the date of Charles 'death: I know he died in 1545 but in the series it was January 1547 ( according to wiki).

I hope you enjoy the little two-shot and will bear with me. I have to go through my oral examines next week which means I have to learnlearnlearn.

That's why I'll possibly write in two-three weeks again.

Sorry guys!

But at least I gave you a little treat, right ;)

P.S. Don't forget to review :)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own the Tudors.

**Summary:** Je t'aime. C'est tout.

C'est tout

Henry is the third son of his father who was named after the King.

The first Henry died young, just like the second.

Young. Childless. Alone.

It makes him wonder whether his name is cursed and whether he will succumb to the same fate.

* * *

><p>As a child Henry was treated like any other noble child.<p>

He was learning arithmetic, languages and politics from the best and most expensive teachers in England.

He was spending more time with his mother than is father who left more and more time on court instead of home.

And sometimes, just sometimes he had some free time to play with his younger brother Charles.

Henry was a little adult and as a little adult he saw quickly that his parents weren't happy with each other anymore.

Whenever father came home, mother would greet him politely but distantly and at nights they would be arguing, their harsh whispers reaching his young ears.

He doesn't understand the meaning behind their hurtful words, doesn't understand the emotions that they are trying to convey.

All he understands is that his parents are rowing more and more often and he doesn't understand _why_.

The distance he felt between his parents grew into a deep abyss that seemingly nothing could mend, that no one could mend.

* * *

><p>His mother is <em>coldcoldcold<em>, shows almost no emotions anymore and is burying herself in the new interpretations of the Holy Bible.

Her faith protects her now, her faith gives her all the love she needs and her faith is the new meaning of her life.

It seems like she doesn't need a husband anymore.

His father doesn't visit them anymore.

Last year he came once, the year before three times and the year before five times.

This year he didn't come once and it was already autumn; only some precious months left until another year begins.

Though he wants to deny it and to fiercely protect his father he knows that Charles Brandon will not leave court anymore for his wife and children.

The golden days had passed.

* * *

><p>Anne was a young maid with golden locks and bright blue eyes. She would send coy looks and coquettish smiles his way whenever he came home from the university.<p>

She was the first woman who taught him the pleasures of the female flesh.

He remembers the young girl fondly, who let him take her in the stable among hay and horses, who let him sink clumsily in her warm, wet cavern; _over and over_ until he reached his climax.

The two of them had many trysts all around the house until his mother found out.

A day later she was dismissed, adequately paid to not spill anything about her and Henry's relationship to others.

His mother looked at him disappointedly and coldly and said, "You will not become your father. I will prevent it with every means that I deem necessary!"

Henry misses Anne and the simplicity and wonder she had brought in his life.

* * *

><p>After five years of almost no contact, he received a letter from his father.<p>

The missive was short and brought to the point:

_Dearest Henry, _

_I wish for you to visit me in Suffolk Manor in order to meet my mistress Brigitte Rousselot._

_Your father,_

_Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk_

His heart ached at the thought that his father only contacted him to meet his mistress, but still he ordered his valet to prepare the journey.

* * *

><p>His father is in a good mood, he seems happier than ever before.<p>

The instant after he realized this, a dark-haired woman in one of his mother's dresses enters the room.

Henry suppresses a gasp at the sight of her.

Dark hair bound in a strict bun with long loose tresses escaping it and framing her angelic face.

Her eyes were dark and mysterious and her form was wonderfully formed, as if made for sin.

She was the epitome of a French maiden.

She is uneasy around him, uncomfortable to meet her lover's son who cannot take his eyes off of her.

The words that leave his lips leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

"_As long as you are happy father, than so am I."_

* * *

><p>The moment he gets back home, a servant tells him that his mother wishes to meet him in the drawing-room.<p>

He had anticipated this because his mother may not live with his father anymore and it practically separated from him, she could never stand competition for his affection.

Catherine Willoughby prides herself of being the only woman who can treat Charles Brandon like he treats the countless women in his life- like an inconsequential whipping-boy.

As soon as he enters, she asks, " Have you met your father's newest whore then?"

Henry holds his tongue, growing weary at the stormy expression on his mother's face and the fathomless look in her eyes, "I bet she is beautiful. A really beautiful French whore, am I right?"

When he still didn't speak, she screamed angrily, "Answer me!"

He sighs soundly, closes his eyes for a short moment to bring forth an image of Brigitte.

"Yes she is beautiful, mother, but like you said she is just a whore. Father will grow bored with her soon enough and she will leave again. Except for father she has no one in this country."

Catherine nodded- pleased at hearing her son's prediction.

But what she didn't know was that Henry intended to taste Brigitte just once before his father got bored of her.

A man didn't meet a woman like her easily and he couldn't let her escape without even knowing the taste of her lips.

* * *

><p>Pale firm thighs hold his hips in place as he thrusts strongly and quickly into her wetness<p>

Swollen, red lips formed an enchanting 'o', moaning her sighing simultaneously with his manhood entering her.

The smell of sweet sweat and the taste of her heat made him-

Henry awoke with a jolt; sweating and panting loudly at the images that assaulted his tired mind.

He dreamed of Brigitte; he dreamed of _bedding_ Brigitte.

An electric current run through his body, making him shudder and the sight of his proudly standing manhood didn't help him to calm down.

He fisted the hard organ, closed his eyes imagining the French beauty and moved his fist up and down _and up and down_ until he reached ecstasy, sighing softly _Brigitte_ before he fell in a deep, undisturbed sleep.

* * *

><p>His father is ill, very ill.<p>

The physicians believe that he will not survive.

His mother turns even colder and more devout in her seclusion while he is drinking brandy in his father's study.

Brigitte tends to his father-day in and out- she never leaves his side and cares for him as lovingly and compassionately like a mother would for her child.

A bitter smile graces his lips.

His father, the charmer, the lothario who had women flocking at his side no matter his age, possesses this beauty who he is losing his heart to, possesses his mother who turns even colder than marble.

Henry cannot describe the feeling that consumes him- it is dark and hateful and yet it is accompanied by a deep hurt which reminds him of the time his mother took him and Charles away from home to live without his father.

He wonders if this feeling is the disappointment of love.

* * *

><p>His father's death was expected and he had prepared for it as well as he could.<p>

It still feels like a strong strike to his face when he sees the cold, stiff corpse.

His mother is dresses in black, a shawl obscuring her expression but he has no eyes for her, this vindicated angel, anyway.

He has only eyes for a woman who is crying like a new born babe that lost her precious parents and is all alone on the world.

She looks as lovely as usual but the added tragedy makes her look so vulnerable that he wishes to take her in his arms and never let her leave.

He cannot understand the look in her eyes when she stares at his mother and cries even stronger if that is possible.

He finds her outside the small chapel and follows his desire to hold her.

He hugs her tightly and starts to stroke her back and shoulders. He shouldn't be comforting her, shouldn't put her above his mother and his duties but her strong grip keeps him ensnared and if he is honest he wishes to dwell just with her.

His strong hands tilt her face tenderly up and suddenly he is kissing her with all the passion and longing he had felt for theses last months.

Before he can be any more forward he is pushed away and she is fleeing to God knows where.

He cannot regret his actions.

* * *

><p>On the day she is leaving England, Henry watches the sun rising and thinks only about her.<p>

In another time, in another world maybe the two of them could have been happy together.

Without charming fathers, stone cold mothers and beautiful mistresses.

Maybe.

* * *

><p>He feels cold and breathing is uncomfortable.<p>

He dies young just like his other brothers who shared his name, just like almost every one of his siblings.

The End

* * *

><p>Finished! I hope you like it<p>

And don't forget to review ;)


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